


The Vitruvian Man

by sopebar8D



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Gore, Horror, M/M, Murder, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 18:47:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16728834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sopebar8D/pseuds/sopebar8D
Summary: World-famous photographer Xu Minghao's creative process often leaves his subjects speechless, but he meets his match in actor Wen Junhui.Written for Spooky Seventeen Fan Fest 2018.





	The Vitruvian Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [llowercase](https://archiveofourown.org/users/llowercase/gifts).



If anyone asked him, Minghao would have sworn that it wasn’t for lack of trying. He had looked into all sorts of methods and tricks to rid himself of this old – habit, if you wanted to call it that. There was the year that he spent writing short stories while living in Jakarta, and the summer he painted his way through the Tuscan countryside. He had even made a very flashy, albeit short-lived, debut as a fashion photographer a few New York Fashion Weeks ago, but that hobby felt as hollow and undeservedly demanding as his actual work. So no, it certainly wasn’t for lack of trying.

Not that anyone would ever ask, of course. Or have the chance to, he thought wryly as he slipped on a pair of nitrile gloves. He paused briefly, then reached for a second pair. Double-gloving was uncomfortable, and even though he had long since switched over from latex, the nitrile still dried out his knuckles. Still, Kwon Soonyoung had bled out a whole lot. Some men just couldn’t hold their alcohol.

Starting with a vertical incision on the upper left side of the chest, Minghao worked quickly through layers of tissue. He stopped when he reached the sternum. On the one hand, he needed to bypass the central bone in order to access the heart. Doing so, however, would require both the use of electrical tools as well as much more time, and while Minghao was always willing to devote both to his craftsmanship, this step was particularly laborious. After a few seconds of deliberation, he shrugged. He had plenty of choice specimens with a clear, head-on view of the heart. This one, he decided as he scraped away shiny chunks of yellow fat, could be the start of a new theme: an exploration into the skeletal system, beginning with the sternum and rib cage.

Once he had swabbed away the last of the blood, including the coagulated pools that had formed where Minghao had slashed into the trachea, he finished off by pinning down symmetrical flaps of skin so as to expose the entirety of the thoracic wall. Minghao stepped back, admiring his handiwork. He appreciated how far he’d come – his first few projects were nowhere near as clean, and those had each taken him several hours. But Mr. Kwon would be No. 17 in the overall series, and altogether the killing, cleaning, and dissecting had taken just under ninety minutes.

Minghao peeled off his double layer of gloves and tossed them into the trash can. The whole scene would, eventually, be dissolved in perchloric acid and then burned to ashes, which would then be collected and shipped to a tiny but high-profile company in Switzerland famous for compressing the remains of the dearly departed into diamonds. But for now, Minghao picked up his Nikon 35mm. His D850 was reserved for his day job, but he preferred the use of film for personal work anyway. Film cast a nostalgic and timeless filter on the subject, which he liked for the sense of reverence it rendered to the victims or, as he chose to think of it, his new friends.

Once he had taken all the photos he would need – and Soonyoung, boisterous and energetic as he had been while living, certainly deserved a variety of both close and wide angles – he set the 35mm aside and reached for a new pair of gloves. Jeon Wonwoo had beautifully delicate wrists, something he had noticed when they had been at dinner, discussing the use of symmetry in Wes Anderson’s early work. He would honor their conversation, as well as Wonwoo’s soon-to-be legacy as a film critic, with a series of photos showcasing the ulna and radius – the bones of the forearm – arranged in a set of symmetrical, but natural, poses. Minghao rolled out a fresh set of silver knives and scissors. New tools for each of his friends, per his usual rules. It was only the respectful thing to do.

 

 

“One cappuccino, please. With almond milk.” Hands fumbling, Minghao nearly dropped his credit card on the floor. “And make that with an extra shot, thanks.”

“For here or to go?”

Minghao looked at the barista, who had the loveliest face he’d ever seen on a man. “For here.” The card reader beeped obnoxiously, and he pulled his card out and slid it back into his wallet.

“I have to say,” the barista smiled, displaying unrealistically perfect teeth, “It’s a pleasure to have you visit our cafe. My husband and I are looking forward to seeing your exhibit down at the college this weekend.”

Word certainly spread quickly in small towns like these. His photo exhibition, _Saving Face_ , would be showing at Amherst College’s Eli Marsh Gallery through the rest of November. The series, which detailed the lives of young newlyweds in rural China, was the culmination of eighteen months’ travel in relentless humidity, unpaved roads, and what many would consider third-world living conditions. While displaying his work at larger museums would certainly have been more lucrative - and indeed, it had been difficult to turn down a four-month offer from San Francisco’s de Young - Minghao preferred smaller showcases at liberal arts colleges and private galleries. They offered the opportunity to interact with fans of his work, and he relished the stimulating discussions he was able to have with a diverse range of patrons.

“The pleasure is all mine,” he replied honestly, smiling back.

Being that it was 11 AM on a Thursday morning in a college town, the coffee shop was mostly empty. A few round wooden tables were occupied by students wearily absorbed into their laptops. Minghao admired the framed photographs that adorned the pale blue walls. The barista seemed to be the owner, since he was in most of the photos. There was a signed sepia-toned picture of him with Kim Mingyu, the indie film actor-turned-fashion designer Minghao had the honor of shooting in Milan Fashion week - until all traces of the man suddenly vanished, his small but fervent fanclub devastated by his disappearance. Minghao hadn’t known that Mingyu had ever stopped by Amherst, of all places. Small world.

A number of photos included the barista with a thin man, roughly equal in height, with crescent-shaped eyes and a disarming, catlike smile. Minghao studied the man’s expression carefully. Handsome, he thought, but not in the traditional way that Mingyu had been, masculine and tall. This man was almost alienish in his beauty.

“That’s my husband,” the barista said from behind him. Minghao turned around. The barista - shop owner? - smiled. “He helped me start this place, actually.” He placed a cappuccino, complete with a swirly leaf design drawn in steamed milk, on a nearby table.

Minghao moved over and sat down in front of his coffee, and the barista sat down in front of him. “I hope you don’t mind me intruding on your time, Mr. Xu,” he started.

“Not at all,” Minghao said, taking a sip. “The coffee is delicious, by the way.”

“I’m glad to hear that. By the way, I never introduced myself. I’m Jeonghan, and Milk and Honey is my coffee shop.” He extended his hand, and Minghao reached out and shook it.

“It’s a lovely place.” Minghao sat back. “You said your husband helped you set it up?”

“About four years ago,” Jeonghan nodded. “Joshua travels all over the country for business, so we thought it would be a friendly little place for him to come home to after his trips. I’m very lucky.”

“Seems like Joshua’s quite the lucky one himself,” Minghao winked. Jeonghan blushed, his cheeks coloring a pretty pink. “I’m impressed by all of the famous patrons you’ve had here. That photo wall is quite impressive.”

“Amherst surprisingly draws a lot of well-known entertainers,” Jeonghan replied. “I think they appreciate how the town lends itself to the artistic process but is also tucked away and hidden from the limelight.”

Minghao nodded toward a photo that hung on the back wall. “That photo over there,” he said. “With the famous actor, Wen Junhui. Now there’s a man I’d like to meet.”

“Jun?” Jeonghan said, surprised. “I - Joshua and I, we know him. He’s a friend, actually. He’s here in Amherst for a teaching residency.”

“Is that so?” Minghao asked, feigning surprise. He had been well-aware of the fact; it had, after all, influenced his decision to show his work at Amherst in the first place. “I’m a huge fan of his stage work, especially. I had an exhibit at Columbia at the same time that he was on Broadway doing _Sweeney Todd_. That,” Minghao traced his finger down the curve of his coffee cup, “Was a spectacular show.”

“You know, if you wanted to meet him, I’d be glad to introduce you.” Jeonghan’s voice rose with excitement. “He’s very friendly - really nice guy - and I’m sure he’d be glad to meet a fan. Especially one who’s also prolific in the arts such as yourself.”

“That’s very kind, but I would never want to impose -”

“It’s not imposing at all. I’d be so happy to put you two in contact.” Jeonghan insisted. “How about this - why don’t you come over to dinner tomorrow night, and we’ll invite Jun too - we’ll introduce the two of you then. Joshua would be so happy, too - he takes any opportunity he can get to entertain.”

Minghao swirled the leftover coffee in his cup. “I mean,” he said evenly, masking his excitement, “If you’re inviting me, how could I refuse?”

Jeonghan beamed. Tucking his long ponytail behind his shoulder, he stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, then, I’ve got to tell Joshua. He’ll be so excited. I’ve got to get flowers, clean up a bit, Shua will need to pick up wine…”

With a final sip, Minghao finished his coffee. He had his own plans to make.

 

 

Thirty-four hours later, Minghao found himself hovering over Jeonghan’s limp body, exhaling deeply. He had unexpectedly put up quite a fight; the barista had been far more athletic and strong than he had appeared. Minghao half-expected him to get up again, swinging frantically, but the man stayed down. His long hair was stained with blood, which was a pity - Minghao had wanted to keep it pristine for artistic purposes, but with all of the hacking that had to be done, it couldn’t be helped.

Wen Junhui had not been able to join them for dinner after all, but Minghao wasn’t discouraged - if anything, he was even more excited since the actor had invited them all to dinner at his house after visiting Minghao’s show together Saturday night. He grunted as he moved Joshua’s body across the carpet to be arranged next to Jeonghan. The man was heavier than he looked, and Minghao was already slightly worn out by the hysterical strength of Jeonghan’s haphazard counterattacks.

He cradled Joshua’s face in his hands gently, exhaustion waning as his excitement grew. The way the man’s lips turned upwards at the corners when smiling - he had found it so enchanting. Otherworldly, even. He imagined how that mouth might look elongated into a Chelsea smile that split the face in unequal halves up to the ears, or to the corners of Joshua’s eyes, still wide open with shock. Minghao passed his hands over them to close the eyelids.

As for Jeonghan, Minghao couldn’t bear to carve into that regal bone structure and perfect skin already turning pallid and grey. All angels need halos, he reminded himself. A deep incision wrapping around the circumference of the man’s temple, passing through the skull and inner membranes to expose blood-soaked brain tissue underneath, would serve well enough.

 

 

Wen Junhui was even more handsome in real life than in movies, and tall. Minghao was especially attracted to how the man couldn’t seem to stand still when he was talking: he gesticulated with his arms, bent forward and backward at the waist to emphasize his thoughts about something, paced back and forth while weighing ideas. Having started his career with martial arts-focused movies based in Hong Kong, he was particularly inquisitive about the exhibit, asking about everything from family dynamics in welcoming a new wife into a household to the types of hand-spun fabric used to make the outer garments worn by the photo subjects. Minghao found the conversation - and Jun himself - provocative, almost titillating - like he’d finally found an equal.

“You do drink, yes?” Jun twisted around from a glass cabinet stocked with an impressive array of wine bottles. After leaving the gallery, Jun had driven them through winding rural roads back to the house he was currently renting. Dinner had been simple - glass noodles, kalbi, pickled daikon - and Minghao realized he had been missing readily available Asian cuisine while staying in rural Massachusetts.

“Copiously.” Minghao pushed his hair back and cast Jun what he hoped was a coy look.

“Good.” Jun beamed back at him, now holding two wine glasses in one hand and a bottle of 2016 Belle Glos Pinot Noir in the other. “Being in LA so long, half of the people you work with are always on some kind of detox, vegan, gluten-free, whatever’s-currently-trendy diet that it’s impossible to know what to serve your colleagues.” Jun set the glasses on the bar counter and filled them, his back facing Minghao. “Artists,” he rolled his eyes.

“I’ve met a few of those cases myself,” Minghao nodded. He waited while Jun set their glasses down on the table in front of him and seated himself across from the photographer. “But no, I’ll take a glass of Franzia over kombucha any day.”

“Franzia hardly merits a glass,” Jun grinned. He held his glass up to the light and swirled the liquid around gently, admiring the wine’s garnet legs dripping delicately down the sides. “But I’m glad. Joshua is a bit of a wine snob, so whenever we eat together, he insists on bringing drinks. So my collection keeps growing faster than I can drink it. Makes me feel like a hoarder.” He brought the wineglass to his nose and sniffed daintily. “Pity he and Jeonghan couldn’t join us tonight, though.”

Minghao began to apologize again on behalf of the absent couple - such a shame they had to miss tonight; Joshua and Jeonghan had to suddenly leave town on account of latter’s younger sister giving birth, or something - but Jun waved it away dismissively.  “So, Minghao. You have to tell me why you chose Amherst. Of all places.”

“I could ask the same of you, though.” He sipped the pinot noir. It was fruity, acidic, intoxicatingly earthy. “But I’m a fan of these small college towns. They’re, I don’t know - intimate, but also such cultural hubs, surprisingly enough.” He set the glass down; if he didn’t pace himself, he would end up downing the whole thing in no time. “Not to the masturbatory point of, you know, San Francisco or Brooklyn. But there’s a good balance of civilization and solitude.”

“I agree. Someone could come here to just disappear, never to be heard from again, and it would be perfectly normal.” Jun laughed, his voice low.

Minghao paused, and against his better judgement, reached for his glass again. “Do you think so?”

"I would hope so,” Jun continued smoothly. “Why do you think I chose Amherst myself?”

Minghao assumed that Jun’s idea of disappearing was quite different from his own, but something about the actor’s quiet laugh was just the slightest bit off-putting. He pushed it to the back of his mind. These Hollywood movie star types - they were a different breed, all of them. “Anyway, I answered your question, so now it’s my turn to ask you - what made you go into acting anyway?”

“What - why acting?”

Minghao shook his head quickly, hoping he hadn’t said something offensive. “I mean, you don’t have to answer it if it’s uncomfortable - “

“Oh, no, it’s not that,” Jun said, amused. “It’s just, well - no one’s asked me that before.”

“I’m honored to be your first, then,” Minghao returned quickly.

Jun’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, when you put it that way...” his voice trailed off.  

Minghao laughed into his wineglass, which was nearly empty now. “I mean, it’s a worthwhile question, right? Kids in our generation weren’t exactly encouraged to pursue the arts. The money’s unstable and the hours are ungodly long.”

Jun picked up the empty wine glass and moved towards the bar counter to refill it. “You know, it’s funny you say that,” he called out, twisting his neck to look back at Minghao. “I actually was committed to a dentistry program when I finished high school.”

“Dentistry?!” Minghao spewed, trying not to laugh. “Dr. Junhui Wen, D.D.S. I can’t even picture it…”

“Right?” Jun brought the filled glass back and placed it in front of Minghao. “It sounds absurd now, but I was actually pretty into the physicality of it. I liked, you know - practicing with the tools, doing pretend surgeries on those little plastic models - you have to be so careful and precise.” He paused to examine his glass, which was still full. “I mean, I had a dance background, right? So I think dentistry required that same level of finesse, but on a much finer level.”

Minghao had never had the highest alcohol tolerance - a major consequence of being on the thinner side - but his head was already starting to spin, and he was only just starting on his second glass. “I can get that. I’ve always focused on the arts, but in my spare time you can say that I, uh, dabble, in science.” He felt his face flush warmly from the alcohol. “Not as something I’d ever actually study or work in, but, you know - take anatomy, for example. It’s the most elaborate, intricate moving puzzle you could ever find. The gold standard when it comes to intersecting form and function.”

“Exactly,” Jun exclaimed. “You get it. So I really enjoyed that aspect of it. Unfortunately,” he grimaced, “The academic demand… I just couldn’t keep up. Organic chemistry? Physics? Definitely not my forte. I was failing pretty badly when I got street-cast, so I took the opportunity and just up and left.”

“Weren’t your teachers, and your parents - and all your friends, classmates - how’d they take it?”

Jun scoffed. “I mean, very poorly at first. Which is to be expected, right?” He twirled his glass, the liquid swishing inside. “But _It Man_ did super well at the box office so I was very very lucky. I never experienced that whole starving artist lifestyle.”

“Can’t say the same for myself, I’m afraid,” Minghao said between sips.

“I’m sorry -”

“No, don’t be, it’s fine -”

“But I have to say,” Jun interjected. He licked his lips; Minghao noticed that he had barely touched his wine. “More than the money that comes along with the job, I think I value the connections the most, you know?” He looked up at Minghao and smiled. “Obviously, you meet your everyday dickheads wherever you go, and they’re all over the place in this business. But I’ve been fortunate enough to meet so many of my idols, too, which is hard to do outside of an industry like ours.”

Minghao leaned forward, studying Jun carefully. He also needed to balance his elbows on the table, as the room was beginning to move quite a bit. “Who’s the person you were most excited to meet? Or, you know, your biggest idol. That you got to meet. If that makes any sense.” The wine was really beginning to kick in, although he could have sworn this was only his second glass. This was his second glass, right?

Jun pursed his lips. “A few years ago I got to meet Lee Jihoon.”

“The DJ - from Seoul, right?” Minghao’s eyes widened. “Wait… didn’t he… didn’t he pass a few years ago?”

“I know,” Jun shook his head. “I was so devastated. I was his biggest fan, too - went to as many of his shows in Vegas and Dubai and Taipei as I could fit in my schedule. I was so happy when I finally got to meet him.”

“I remember reading about it and being so shocked. He was so young! I think just a few years older than me, right? It was, what, suicide, I think?”

“I don’t think they ever decided on a cause of death,” Jun said lightly.

Minghao felt sorry for the direction the conversation had turned. “Do you ever miss it?”

“Miss what?”

“Dentistry.” He drained his glass.

“You know, you’d be surprised at how easy it can be to practice even outside of a clinical setting.” Jun’s voice was quiet, and very calm.

“I beg your pardon.” Minghao clutched at the edge of the table and tried to hide how lightheaded he was feeling. “We’re talking about dentistry, right?”

Jun laughed and sipped his wine. “Oh, Xu Minghao. You’re just as cute as I thought you would be.”

“As you - thought I’d be?”

“Okay, I can’t help it. I have to come clean about it now. I’m a huge fan of your work. You probably could tell, right? When we were going through your show? Which, again, I’m floored by.”

It was increasingly hard to keep up with the conversation, and Jun seemed hell-bent on talking. Minghao would have felt a little more regretful - he had been planning this night for so long, and he hadn’t forgotten the silver knives and scissors still waiting in his coat pocket - but he could barely sit up straight. “I mean, I’m equally a big fan of your work - “

“Right, but listen,” Jun pressed. “Your first publication in French _National Geographic_ came out, what, eight, nine years ago?”

“Oh, the exposé on-”

“On the true damage of recyclables on the Tunisian white antelope population, yeah,” he continued enthusiastically. He was talking very quickly now. “Minghao, I picked up that magazine when I was hungover one morning on set, and I still remember, I was just amazed -”

“I’m very honored -”

“And then I kept up with your print work, and when you started doing full exhibits, I visited as many as I could. Like when you had your _Senescence_ exhibit at, I think it was NYU or Columbia? I was doing Broadway at that time, and I was so happy to be so close to your work.”

“You were doing _Sweeney Todd_ , right?” Minghao remembered. The room was blurry. “I - I went to your show! It was - Jun, you were phenomenal -”

“Sweeney? No, that just felt like a natural fit. It’s such an overdone and basic show, it’s nothing extraordinary,” Jun babbled. “Don’t - don’t change the subject, okay? We are focusing on your work, which is so - the scope of it, Minghao, is both so personal and so varied! _Senescence_ was so intimate, everything was shot so close up, and then _Celestial Bodies_ \- I stopped by the show at McGill - that was just expansive and huge in scale, and made me feel so small and, you know, insignificant - in a good way -”

Minghao peered at Jun, who continued to wax poetic about some other exhibit, or something - he couldn’t keep up. The room was blurry and dim, and everything was spinning relentlessly. He struggled to keep his eyes open and his head up - the wine - Jun had barely touched his wine - he was still talking, and Minghao’s eyes were closing -

“So believe you me,” Jun concluded, finally pausing for air. “I really am your biggest fan, Xu Minghao.”

The last thing Minghao heard as his head hit the table was the clinking of glasses and the sound of liquid sloshing as Jun poured his still-full glass of wine down the kitchen sink.

 

 

It was cold. Minghao shivered and opened his eyes.

The first thing he saw was his own face. Not its mirror image, but rather the professional headshot that was always used on flyers and brochures promoting his work. Looking around, he saw the same image again and again and again. The room was papered from floor to ceiling, wall to wall, with pictures of himself - his face in black and white images cut carefully from newspaper articles, his face in glossy color from posters advertising his newest show, his face in matte ink printed off his website, on yellowed paper ripped out of books and catalogs.

He started to sit up but felt a sharp pull on his arms prohibiting movement. Craning his neck to the side, he realized that his wrists were cuffed, each chained to a separate bedpost. He looked down; his ankles were similarly restrained. He was stark naked.

Panicking, he pulled at the chains, which clanked noisily. “Hello?” he croaked. His throat was parched. How long had he been here? “Wh - what’s going on?”

There was no answer. Minghao wasn’t sure he wanted one. He looked around the room as thoroughly as his restraints would allow. In the far left corner, there was a coffee table stacked with copies of French _National Geographic_ , _Vogue Japan_ , Italian _Vanity Fair_ \- all magazines that he had published in. On the other side of the room was an antique writing desk cluttered with framed photos. Among them were press photos of Minghao receiving the Hamdan International Photography Award in 2015; Minghao at a fine arts discussion panel hosted by the New York MOMA in 2017; Jun holding up a peace sign and smiling in front of a banner advertising _Celestial Bodies_ at McGill University in 2014.

Minghao’s eyes widened; realization of where he was - and what had happened - began to dawn on him. A plain nightstand stood at the immediate right of the bed he was chained to. On top of it sat a rectangular platter, which held a gleaming row of probes, tweezers, scalpels. Horrified, he recognized his own silver knives and scissors next to a stainless steel dental mirror.

Trying to ignore his own terror, Minghao gingerly attempted to wriggle his wrists out of the handcuffs. The chains jingled with every movement he made, and the metal was tight and chafing. He stopped when he heard footsteps outside of the door, cheerful humming permeating across the wall.

The door opened. Jun, dressed in grey scrubs and grinning from ear to ear, waltzed in.

“Let me go,” Minghao said hoarsely, trying to keep the fear out of his voice.

“Now, now, Minghao.” Jun carefully put on a pair of latex gloves. “That’s no way for a guest to behave.”

“What kind of host treats their guest like this?” Minghao spat back.

Jun held up a roll of film negatives, which Minghao recognized immediately as pilfered from his coat pocket. “What kind of modern photographer uses film?”

Minghao swallowed.

Still smiling, Jun shook his head. “Anyway, you won’t be complaining for long, Minghao. I treat all of my guests with the best care.” He slipped on a surgical mask and picked up Minghao’s silver scissors and a pair of tweezers. “Now open up. It’s time to play.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This was quite out of my comfort zone, but I'm actually a huge horror fan, so it ended up being a lot of fun. Didn't expect that my first foray into horror would involve my bias wrecker slicing open my bias, but you know, first time for everything, right? LOL


End file.
